Colombian RumRunner
by saathiray
Summary: It's 1979, the height of the Dark Lord's power. He discovers a  strange white powder made from the coca plant, but this new drug becomes his undoing, and it lays waste to the Wizarding World. A story of addiction,  greed, and mystery.
1. Prologue

COCAINE BLUES

Early one mornin' while makin' the rounds

I took a shot of cocaine and I shot my woman down

I went right home and I went to bed I stuck that lovin' 44 beneath my head

Got up next mornin' and I grabbed that gun took a shot of cocaine and away I run

Made a good run but I run too slow they overtook me down in Juarez Mexico

Late in the hot joints takin' the pills in walked the sheriff from Jericho Hill

He said Willy Lee your name is not Jack Brown

You're the dirty heck that shot your woman down

Said yes oh yes my name is Willy Lee if you've got the warrant just aread it to me

Shot her down because she made me sore

I thought I was her daddy but she had five more

When I was arrested I was dressed in black

They put me on a train and they took me back

Had no friend for to go my bail they slapped my dried up carcass in that country jail

Early next mornin' bout a half past nine I spied the sheriff coming down the line

Ah and he coughed as he cleared his throat

He said come on you dirty heck into that district court

Into the courtroom my trial began where I was handled by twelve honest men

Just before the jury started out I saw the little judge commence to look about

In about five minutes in walked the man holding the verdict in his right hand

The verdict read in the first degree I hollered Lowdy Lowdy have a mercy on me

The judge he smiled as he picked up his ben 99 years in the Folsom pen

99 years underneath that ground I can't forget the day I shot that bad bitch down

Come on you've gotta listen unto me lay off that whiskey and let that cocaine be

She don't lie, she don't lie, she don't lie; cocaine.

THE WRECK OF THE OLD 97

Well they gave him his orders at Monroe, Virginia,

Said: "Steve, you're way behind time,

"This is not 38, this is Ol' 97,

"Put her into Spencer on time."

Then he turned around and said to his black, greasy fireman,

"Shovel on a little more coal.

"And when we cross that White Oak mountain,

"Watch Ol' '97 roll."

And then a telegram come from Washington station,

This is how it read:

"Oh that brave engineer that run ol 97,

"Is lyin in old Danville dead."

'Cos he was going down a grade making 90 miles an hour,

The whistle broke into a scream.

He was found in the wreck with his hand on the throttle,

Scalded to death by the steam.

Oh, now all you ladies you'd better take a warning,

From this time on and learn.

Never speak hard words to your true-lovin' husband.

He may leave you and never return.


	2. Chapter 1

_Early one morning while making the rounds…._

When had the love potion stopped working? And when had it started working on him instead of her? When had she become more than a pet? The burning in his nose that made his face grow slowly numb couldn't seem to enlighten him. The little bag of white addictive dust offered him no solace.

Her long red hair was cast about her milky body enfolded in the dark sheets, and she stared in horror at him. Beside her, a man much younger than he with hazel eyes was occupying the bed, _their_ marriage bed which he had somehow grown to love even more than he could ever think. The place used to be a mere playground for his folly. But now, to see another soil it so carelessly, he felt jealous passion at seeing his little sanctified garden desecrated. Was he hot from rage or his new powdered novelty? The shadows on the walls crept about and scurried from the flickering of the lamp's flame. Rather than parting, the two in his bed clung to each other.

"How could you betray me," he hissed, more of him growing numb. "After everything I did for you. I gave you more than any man ever could." Impulsively, he tore the sheets from the bed so she could feel shame at her nakedness. "I turned the world upside down for you!"

"Thomas." Her voice was soft and docile. Even in the face of danger, she spoke with tender tones. "Please, don't be upset. You'll wake Harry—James, no!"

The man on the bed leapt to his feet. "Lily, go tend to the baby." His eyes burned with green fire as he grabbed up some of the sheets to fashion around his waist as quickly as possible.

Somehow, before the cuckold-maker even moved, he had the foresight to see James grabbing his wand from the nightstand to fight him. One moment, James' wand was in his hand. The next moment, it was three inches deep between the adulterer's ribs; the Dark Lord felt little resistant since the point of the wand was sharper as a wooden stake. Blood fell like warm rain drops on his face. The twisted rage on his adversary face inspired a dark joy that he recalled feeling in his youth, bringing back memories of when he killed his father.

Lily shrieked as James fell into the bed, inadvertently driving the spike further. His breathing grew shallow as he groped for the wand.

Desire to eliminate the foe overtook his desire to make him suffer. When he pointed his wand at James, the blanket of death fell heavy on his body. His limbs went limp.

_I took a shot of cocaine and I shot my woman down…._

"Thomas, no!" she sobbed, dressed in only a shift and clutching her wailing infant. "What have you done? Why did you do this?" She cowered on the floor like a supplicant before a martyred saint.

"Because I gave you everything and this is how you've repaid me!" Her auburn hair was in his fist as he pulled her up, shaking her violently all the way. "I am the Dark Lord, and no one shall wrong me as you have done!" She whimpered, clutching her baby hard as she shuddered at the shock of a harsh slap across her face.

Her head began bleeding when she hit it on the table after he threw her down. The wailing baby fell out of her arms only when she hit the floor, causing the child no harm. The world seemed dimmer, and she fought for consciousness if only to see her son one more time.

His laugh was high, cold, and mirthless when he saw her pitifully crawl toward the ugly little whelp she had dared called his. She cried out as his foot repeatedly hit her side, all of her body shuddering weakly like a leaf. "Where's your strength?" he taunted, his foot now stomping her hip.

The baby continued to scream, his cries sounding more and more animalistic. He had green eyes, beautiful green eyes like the pristine leaves of a mint plant. Why hadn't he noticed before? His true son would never look like his mother. A little alien in his house, his fortress, and he never knew until now. The drug in his body had opened his eyes to the truth behind all the lies she had been telling him. The child he treasured as his own was a bastard with an adulterer for his father. That wouldn't be for long.

Somehow, she found the strength to throw herself before the jet of magic springing from his wand. Green light engulfed her screaming body as more dark blood splattered on the mahogany wood floor. It took a moment, but he saw everything. Her arms writhed as if she were a seductive dancer of some exotic choreography. When her meagerly clad body twisted, it was like watching the flickering of a flame. Her mouth sucked in the wind, and it sounded like a gasp of lust. She seemed to curl into a coil when she fell down dead.

All that was left was the little imposter. He still cried bitterly as if knowing that he had no hope left in this world. So soon he had entered, and already he would leave. Something about his crying seemed a little rhythmic, as if he were chanting in an unknown or forgotten tongue that only infants could decipher.

A killing curse was simply too swift. This child needed to be punished. The Dark Lord raised his wand, wishing to torture every bone in the green-eyed whelp's feeble body.

Green light surrounded and obscured his vision. He felt cuts all over his body that were being rubbed with salt. There was poison in his bones, causing a sharp and merciless pain. Inside his brain, a worm was eating through to bore out of his skull. Even his throat felt so raw that he couldn't utter a whimper. What had this evil child done to him?

He dropped his wand, trying to breathe even though it felt like there was fire in his lungs. Were the lamps dying out or was he just the one dying? The fuzz of darkness grew broader until, finally, he saw only a starless and moonless night.


	3. Chapter 2

_Got up the next morning and I grabbed my gun…._

At the front door, brown leaves were falling. A cold, wild wind came through the street, and sweethearts walked by together. Severus wrapped his threadbare coat closer around his wan body, trying to ignore that morning the people who looked far happier than he. The young man could only imagine the damage he had caused. Ratting out Lily's lover had been a terrible idea; she would never forgive him. She hardly forgave him for that time he called her a "mudblood" in school, but this would be worse. All he had wanted was to get rid of James Potter for making her into a whore. To see the Dark Lord use her as his sexual treasure weakened his spirits, but to see James Potter take advantage of her circumstances was a thorn in his heart. He could take comfort that, whatever happened, no harm would come to Lily. The Dark Lord thought her too pretty to kill. But more importantly, Severus knew that he kept Lily under his power for control. If he could control the potions prodigy, he could be assured of his alliance. In this way, he had let the Dark Lord castrate him.

Reaching out a frost-nipped hand, he knocked on the door and expected Lily to answer. When no one came, he let himself inside as he often did. He breathed on his hands, surprised to feel no warmth of a fire on the hearth. The house seemed dead, sending a small chill up his spine. The Dark Lord would have gone to James Potter's house, right? After all, it was him who had done the wrong, not Lily. He had been seducing Lily and giving her to his friends. That last part seemed unlikely, but he knew about the affair. The stag that loitered around the house looked all too familiar. After being terrorized for seven years by the man, he'd recognize that coat and those prongs without a shred of doubt. "My lord?" he called, uncomfortable with the sound of his own voice as it broke the intense silence.

The door to the bedroom beckoned to him, as it had every single time before. Just once, he wanted a peek at Lily's sleeping form. He appreciated and savored her appearance in way that no one else could. No one celebrated her feminine pose and charm the way he did. The Dark Lord might afford him a glimpse, possibly. There was no harm in looking. He would never lay an unwanted hand on her, not like other men.

Severus jumped back after pushing open the door, falling into the wall. The film of grease that seemed to cover his body felt worst combined with profuse sweat. Every corpse he had ever seen looked frozen in time; he began to realize how kind the Killing Curse was to its victims. There was no harm done, and instead the body just wholly stopped functioning. He suddenly realized that, for all the years of torment, he never actually wished for James Potter to die. All he wanted was for the man to just leave him alone.

As sick as he felt, he knew that he had to explore the rest of the house. Seeing James dead sharpened his fear for the only woman he ever loved. Part of him expected their ghosts to appear and curse him for his misdeeds against them.

Two bodies and a bundle lay in the parlor. The blood on the lavender rug made his head swim with horror. His knees gave out and he fell, vainly grabbing some furniture for support. Tears already began to sting his eyes as he crawled toward his beautiful and chalk-white Lily. He had the chance to save her, and he failed. Clutching her corpse which had stiffened from the cold and from cadaveric spasms, he wept bitterly for Lily Evans and his own breaking heart.

_Took a shot of cocaine and away I run…._

Under the direction of the Dark Lord, Severus reluctantly stuffed James' body in a closet for it to rot. But he was vexed by his master's unusual behavior regarding the corpse of Lily Evans. "Go cut some wood," he ordered while he was wrapping the dead body in a white sheet. "We'll burn her on a pyre."

The stench of burning flesh turned Severus' stomach inside out. If not for the little baby on his arms, he would have started vomiting. Instead, he clutched his hooked nose tightly while still trying to hush the baby so it wouldn't cry so much.

"Severus, my faithful servant," said the Dark Lord in a low voice, the heat of the flames putting some color in his cheeks. "Even for your youth, you have shown me a loyalty that my followers should envy. You have told me of her adulterous ways, and you reported the prophecy of my downfall." When he looked to Severus, his expression was deadpan. "Before I can teach you more, you must do one more task." His eyes fell on the baby which continued to fuss.

On the tip of his tongues were intense words of protest, the strong temptation to defy the Dark Lord no matter what the cost. Taking a deep breath, he managed to form the words that he knew would be in his best interest. "How shall I do it, Lord Voldemort?"

"I care not," he answered tersely, unable to keep his gaze on the baby for longer than a few seconds. "That bastard has no place in this world."

Severus stared at the child before turning his attention back to his master. "But I thought—"

"Can't you see its eyes?" snapped the Dark Lord with a hissing voice, pointing his wand menacingly. "Those are not mine. This bastard is not mine. Who do you think has those eyes? Now leave here. I wish to be alone."

Still wracked with guilt and confusion, Severus stumbled through the house back out to the front stoop. He looked at the innocent child in his arms. How much blood could one man bear to have on his hands? When he held up the baby, he saw the name _Harry_ embroidered on the bib. "That's what you are," he said quietly to the child who had stopped crying. The little baby stared at him with curiosity. After seeing what the Dark Lord had done, the fire of revenge flared up in Severus. It wouldn't be enough to give the baby its mother's name. "You are Harry Potter. That's what you are. That's what you'll always be."


	4. Chapter 3

_Late in the hot joints, taking the pills…._

Ever so subtly, he felt his power unraveling. It had started at the fingertips of his wand hand. A little discoloration and a few black spots under his nail beds were all that he had seen. Now, he wrapped black tourniquet cloth around his forearm to force some blood into his fingers. His hand was looking pale and it often grew numb. After taking his prized possessions, the Dark Lord had taken to hiding in the home of the only follower he deemed worthy enough to house him: Bellatrix Lestrange.

Together in the parlor of her home, the coal-haired beauty tended to every single need of her guest. If he so much as speculated on whether or not he wanted something, she snapped at the house elf to bring the item. Her dark eyes glimmered with great reverence, not the least bit deterred by how uninterested he seemed in her. Aside from asking for items, he spoke little since arriving a week ago and did not indulge her into details concerning the reason for his visit. Bellatrix never pressed him for an explanation, nor did her new husband Rodolphus. Still, suppertime often felt tortuous as the three never conversed with each other. She was afraid to say anything that the Dark Lord would frown on. If her husband would just not come to supper one night, it would free her to chat how she pleased. The couple had spent their wedding night staring at each other before agreeing to sleep in separate rooms for as long as they lived. While they had respect for each other, the idea of sharing personal space made both cringe.

With Rodolphus gone for the day to do who-knew-what, she had the house and the Dark Lord to herself; their house elf Treacle had gone with him. She had even altered her appearance slightly for the occasion, adding some color to her cheeks and prettying up her thin lips. Many knew her as a fierce and domineering woman so they, including her husband, would have laughed to see her act so ladylike. The magical paintings held scenes of the world such as the sea and the white cliffs of Dover rather than many portraits of their relatives. For this, she was thankful because no one could spy on her. He sat on her parlor settee while she had taken an adjacent chair, and she waited for any possible order from him since she had finished drinking her tea.

He broke the silence. "Bella, bring me my black box." The Dark Lord's voice had a strange edge to it.

Eager to impress him, she made the box materialize on the coffee table. While tempted to lift the top for him, she thought better of that idea. There may be something very special in that box that he wanted to keep a secret. It never left his room, and he hissed quietly at any mention of it.

He seemed reluctant at first. Then, he lifted the top with his good hand. Inside laid a clear bag of white powder pristine as new snow. There was also a syringe and some strips of cloth. With great care, he prepared a solution of the powder in the syringe. "This, Bella, will expand your mind in ways that no potion in the world ever could. Give me your arm. Lift your sleeve."

She did as she was told, exposing her supple pale skin. Though it was painful, she didn't wince at how tight the tourniquet was. It was already starting to make her arm turn colors. The needle went in. The tube was white as he pushed down the plunger. The tube went red when he pulled it up, and it was still red when he pushed it down again.

The rush took her by surprise. So intense were the effects that she felt bile rushing into her mouth. Clamping her hands over her face, Bellatrix choked as she fought it back down. The last thing she wanted was to seem even the least bit weak. This must be a test of some kind. Why else would he give her such a terrible substance? She would stay strong and live up to her namesake. Even as her stomach churned and cramped, she swallowed whatever came up with each contraction. No matter how good her meal had tasted, the mixture tasted terrible the second time. She winced and moaned silently at tasting eggs and fruit a second time in the worst manner possible. Her throat burned, and she cursed herself as her eyes started watering. It felt long and arduous, but somehow she felt her body settle at last. There were locusts in her ears now.

From his pocket, the Dark Lord had pulled a galleon. After carefully dumping on more powder, he gave it to her. "Put this under your nose and breathe deeply."

Bellatrix coughed violently shortly after, panicking for a moment because part of her face had gone numb. Her heart thundered like the hoof beats of a racehorse in her chest. But in moments, she realized the veil of mental haze that had been put over her world because it was suddenly lifted. Everyone who had ever accused her of being mentally unsound would be proven wrong because she had never felt saner in her life. The drug bolstered her spirits greatly as well, and she felt her tongue untie itself. The house around her seemed brighter.

She watched the Dark Lord give himself the same cocktail, mentioning that he knew this method as a "Colombian Rum-runner." He gagged and coughed a little but otherwise seemed far more experienced with this little powder. A sudden vitality came to his eyes, an extreme excitement that she hadn't yet seen since he arrived. The only time she ever saw that was when he performed magic. "Bella, you are far more loyal than any of my other followers. You are good and you are obedient."

With her inhibition gone, she joined him on the settee despite all the shaking in her limbs. "My lord is the best lord there is. He is generous and wise. He is good and he is kind." She felt herself entranced.

"Bella, only you can know this. You know what will happen if you breathe a word."

Hanging on his every word, she leaned closer. "I am more loyal than all others. I am good and I am obedient."

"This drug—my mouth speaks what I dare not each time." With his good hand, he clutched hers so tightly that it turned red. "You must help me. I must teach you everything I know. It is Lily Evans who has done this, Severus' damn treasure." He shoved her away without any indication as to why. "She brought that man into our bed. The bastard child that Severus should've killed, that was her and her lover. I should have killed her long ago." The strain of anger seemed to make him winded, and he took a breath. "She was a good pet but she had to be punished. She was a cute toy, and yet I was jealous. I have nothing to be jealous of."

Bellatrix never knew about any of the affairs, but she got a good enough from his words of what had happened. She felt that without this new drug, she would have asked stupid questions rather than immediately locking into the truth. "You were right to kill that mudblood whore!" she snarled. "I saw her with other men. She was a mud-bitch." However, she was quite pure and beautiful and wise. Bellatrix was pristine and she was good. Bellatrix was obedient.

"She was a mud-bitch," he repeated. "And yet I feel a fondness for her that I do for my other pets and that I do for snakes. I had used the Love Potion on her for so long that I think it began seeping into my own skin. I can almost feel it on my fingers, the little droplets that I was never careful with. " The Dark Lord stared out the window before him, his face drawn into a contemplative expression. "Bella, I am filled with a profound anger and hatred. The world must be cleansed in fire. I carry such a heavy burden, trying to salvage this society of sin and apathy. Do you see how fat the Ministry grows?"

"I see it, I see it!" She sidled closer, snatching up his hand. "I see it, My Lord, even if no one else but us can! Not even Rodolphus or Lucius knows this. Not Narcissa, not Antonin, not anyone but I!" Without thinking, she pressed his palm to her breast. "Trust me with your secrets, My Lord. Tell me all."

He took the move as an invitation, and he rubbed the back of his hand against her exposed neck and shoulders. "I do not have much time here. The people around me grow stupid and rank with decay. Except for you, your generation grows fat and soft. This body is failing me because I am too much for it. I need a new form, a body more fit for me and my new order." His eyes looked hungry. "You must help me create this new body."

"I will happily create anything for you, My Lord." There was something pulling at her. She had always felt this string between her thighs that ran up through her abdomen and to her ribs before coming out and threading toward the Dark Lord. Now, she felt him yanking hard on that invisible string. "Tell me how."

"Give yourself to me as Lily did." He roughly caressed her face, smearing the make-up on her lips. "You must do as I say, Bellatrix. Our union will make another body for me."

"Yes, yes, My Lord!" She didn't care what was expected of her. She had married Rodolphus, and he wanted none of her. That had been the extent of her duty. If the man wanted children, he would find some. Rodolphus might have been her husband, but the Dark Lord was her true spouse. "Let me clean you of her filth, My Lord. I will give you a beautiful body."

Grabbing her by the wrists, the Dark Lord sat her hastily on the Oriental rug. They inadvertently knocked over the coffee table nearby, although thankfully his black box had been set elsewhere for safe-keeping. "Bellatrix Lestrange, you are good and you are obedient."

"Call me Bellatrix Black!" she gasped. "My Lord, speak to me in Parseltongue!" Her chest heaved as she thrashed about in her eagerness. Although expected to lay stoic, her fiery spirit could never allow such a thing. He kept her wrists pinned to the floor by way of magic while his hands touched what her husband never dared. In her moaning and lustful thrashing, she never noticed how he never met her eyes. She didn't notice her virginal blood on the Oriental rug either.


	5. Chapter 4

_Oh yes, oh yes, my name is Willy Lee…._

Urquhart Castle loomed over the water against an oppressive sky. The truest of the true among the Dark Lord's followers had assembled at the remains of a well, the wind off the loch seeping into their cloaks. Although it was only noon, the November day looked as though it would quickly wane away and yield itself to chaotic night. Even those who could afford warm clothes paced slowly and rubbed their gloved hands. Those less unfortunate stamped often on the cold grass to hide their shivering. They averted their eyes from each other, silently waiting for their leader.

Upon seeing his tall form appear out of thin air, they huddled like a group of shades. Like one being, they bowed before him as supplicants would before a god. Still, they kept their oaths of silence in reverence for the gravity of this gathering.

"All of this had once lorded over all in its sight. The water, the earth, and even the sky were in its grasp." He gestured to the mossy stones, everything broken down by the passage of time. "Now, this great work of war lies in ruin. Look at what decadence has wrought."

The grass seemed to ripple like the crimped fins of a fish. Their eyes noted what remained of a building's corner. The castle had once been tall, but now the stone wall stood no higher than their knees. The castle's rotten tower was the only indication that it had been anything more than a pile of rubble.

"This war machine lies in ruin. We lie in ruin." The Dark Lord pulled a stone off the well's wall. "Before our fathers, before the Ministry, the world knew us as its masters. Now, we live in fear of lesser beings, a race that took what was rightfully ours. While we hide, they couple like rabbits and breed more deformed creatures to bring about our end." He dropped the stone down the well, waiting to hear its lonely splash. "They think we're only myth, something harmless. We must fight these savages who dare call themselves lords over the earth."

Signaled by their leader, the dozen faithful followed him obediently down the steep climb to the waters of the loch. They clustered together like birds in a rookery, watching the shifting surface of the loch with waters so clear that rather than being green, the expanse looked like a yawning hole leading below the earth. On the loch as if the water were solid ground stood a round table with thirteen seats. It looked arranged for a meal except there were only goblets, a decanter of water, and a loaf of bread.

"Come. We have only this day." When no one budged, the Dark Lord's eyes hardened. "Is the faith of men easily broken?" His feet hit the water. Rather than sinking through, he treaded upon the waves so that even his trailing robes seemed impervious to a drop of water.

Even for a wizard, this was unusual. None of them had sensed the spell he used for any of this sorcery, nor would they have known what words to utter for this charm. Eager to seem the most loyal of the all, Bellatrix parted from the gaggle to take her master's hand. "The faith of women can never be broken, my lord." Like him, she walked atop the water.

He smiled thinly, leading her to a place at the table. Others chose to apparate into their seats, less willing to take their chances; they were the younger Death Eaters like Lucius Malfoy, Severus Snape, Eric Mulciber, and Fitzroy Wilkes. Lack of infatuation and long-standing loyalty gave their trepidation credence. The more trusting took the Dark Lord's hand, bewildered by how dry their feet stayed. At the table sat the oldest and most loyal followers such as Ophiuchus Lestrange, Valerius Avery, and Maximillian Nott. Finally, the catalogue was completed with the presence of Antonin Dolohov, Augustus Rookwood, Walden Macnair, and Cadogan Rosier. Tension floated over the table as the generations eyed each other warily. They didn't know who could be trusted.

When the Dark Lord took his place, he uncorked the decanter. Out of the decanter poured clear water; into his goblet gushed dark red wine. The wizards were astounded because, once again, they couldn't deduce what sort of spell he had used. It seemed that he literally willed the water to change rather than using any magic. They sniffed at the wine which he put in their goblets, disbelieving and trying to verify that their eyes did not deceive them.

The Dark Lord then broke the hard loaf, tearing off a piece before handing it off to the others. He watched them take their piece, unsure as to what they should do. He also noted which of them hesitated to take something such as Severus. The loaf never made it back to the Dark Lord as was his intention since everyone had taken their share. After waiting until some of them were so uncomfortable that they clearly were fighting back the urge to fidget, he stood up with his goblet in hand.

"There is only today." His voice was deep and brooding. "I have given you great things. I have given you liberty, I have given you health, and I have given you opulence. When you eat this bread, think of this body which I will soon shed. When you drink this wine, think of the blood I have spilled for you. Remember me when you eat and drink."

The wine was far stronger than they had imagined, and there was something not quite right about the bread. No one thought much about the white powder that dusted the bread or spilled out of it with the crumbs. They did notice, though, that their mouths started to get numb as they ate more bread. With the two combined, they felt their inhibition melt away.

"You always knew how to be a good host," said Valerius, smiling as the wine did its work on him. Even though he could hold his liquor well, something about this draught hit him quick and hard. Age and dark magic had taken its toll on his constitution, but he had few worries because his son would soon replace him.

Once the silence broke, others slowly became at ease. "Much more hospitable that any sort of gathering at the Ministry." Augustus smirked stupidly. "Reminds me of those things muggles do. What do call them?"

"Symposiums." Eric was embarrassed to admit even knowing one fact about non-magical culture, so he quickly added, "I read it somewhere, maybe. I don't think it's even true. I wouldn't know anything about that." He then gulped down a mouthful of burning wine.

"'Tis a shame we have no entertainment." Cadogan, remembering his student years with the Dark Lord, felt comfortable enough to be candid. "Perhaps we'll have to provide that for ourselves."

Unfortunately, the Dark Lord wasn't receptive. He glared icily around the table, leering until the any form of joy had left their faces. At their rueful expressions, he hissed, "You think this is a little party for your own benefit?" He slammed his fist on the table, shaking the goblets. "Have you no perception?" Standing up in anger, he now seemed even taller than before. "It is good that I have seen what is to come. One of you will deny me, and one of you will betray me!"

Protests exploded from the followers, all of them simultaneously insisting that they would never do such a thing and blaming the others for those crimes. Fingers pointed everywhere as they pleaded and shouted.

The Dark Lord's voice rose above the ruckus. "Lucius! After all I have given you; three times you will deny me!"

"No, never!" Lucius prostrated from his seat. "My lord, no such thing—"

"Three times, Malfoy!" Gazing over the others, his acrid voice gained more bite. "And one of your diners, one of my twelve chosen, will betray me!"

Severus kept his head low, absolutely certain that the Dark Lord could hear his thunderous heartbeat and every thought in his head. He had betrayed someone he loved, and then again he had betrayed someone he loathed. His death would neither be sweet nor swift, and he waited in terror for his fate.

The Dark Lord's eyes fell on young Fitzroy Wilkes who, unlike the others, had eaten only the crust of his bread. The freckles stood out prominently against his pallid face. Deaf to Fitzroy's appeals, he raised his wand. Moments later, the young man writhed in the water and clawed desperately at the surface. They all knew that he had never learned how to swim. "Leave him," commanded the Dark Lord, seeing a few flinch in his direction. "Let him feed the monster. Cast your eyes away from him."

Helplessly, they obeyed and looked everywhere but at their dying comrade. He continued to cry and shout like a bleating goat in pain as he thrashed against the waves. They heard something else break the surface, something bigger. Around their feet, they felt larger waves wash over their shoes. Fitzroy had no last words; he only screamed as the unseen monster pulled him into the black depths.

"A toast to your fallen comrade," said the Dark Lord, raising his goblet. "May you learn from his mistakes."

They gave a tepid response before drinking more wine to drown their memories. All of them secretly breathed in relief because they had been spared. Lucius and Severus were especially grateful that would live to see the end of the day.

Something about killing made the Dark Lord a little more chipper, or at the very least it put him enough at ease to not seem so brooding. From his robes he pulled more flasks of wine and his precious white powder, the hint of a smile on his face. "Now that there are only the faithful present, it is only fitting that the faithful be rewarded. Drain your cups to the dregs."

_I thought I was her daddy but she had five more…._

The Death Eaters leaned heavily against each other as they tried to navigate the ruins of the castle, drunken giggles coming from their lips like champagne bubbles. Bellatrix held onto the Dark Lord for support who didn't seem to mind because he was walking straighter than anyone else without too much effort. Antonin kept rubbing his gums because he couldn't tell whether or not they felt any sensations. And having lost any sense of decency after his third cup, Walden braved the cold to shamelessly relieve himself near a mass of rocks.

Severus, who had taken a potion for cutting the effects of liquor, still felt queasy thanks to the white powder. He felt mentally clear, but the effects of the wine were still clouding his brain. Unlike the others who wove around, he walked very slowly so he could keep on a single path. He knew that this stuff was dangerous for him because there was truth in wine. He had to keep himself very well-guarded.

"You still want your entertainment, old Rosier?" asked the Dark Lord with an ominous chuckle. "Have a dancing girl." From his wand came a plume of amber smoke that grew, taking on shapely legs and a narrow waist. Clad in only a short India-inspired skirt and a long necklace stood the form of Lily Evans, her empty eyes smiling and willing. She was like an orange ghost, her long hair twisting like small flames. When he flicked his wand, the simulacrum pantomimed a bawdy dance.

The men crowded around as they tried to keep on their feet, already mesmerized by her; Severus, however, glowered at the ground with a face redder than the ghost. Maximillian, one of the oldest present, offered his hand which the ghost took eagerly. As he led her around haphazardly, he shouted with glee, "I should learn this spell so I can have my wife back!" At the Dark Lord's approval, he passed her off to someone else.

Ophiuchus grabbed the wispy creature, intrigued because she felt like flesh and blood. "She was almost as beautiful as my daughter." After the marriage, he often referred to Bellatrix as if she were his own. She had far more ambition than Rodolphus, someone he didn't put as much faith in. He felt that his son rightfully did not belong at this gathering because he didn't have the necessary drive. In any case, Cygnus Black had pledged the girl to his family for as long as she lived. Her fanatical devotion delighted old Lestrange. Seeing that they were free to do what they wish, he blatantly snuck a hand under the skirt that left little to the imagination.

The simulacrum of Lily Evans wandered from man to man, whirling like a dervish when they pushed her away and flailing like a marionette. It took very little for the intoxicated Death Eaters to remember their carnal cravings, and they giggled stupidly at how life-like she felt. The married ones seemed even more delighted about acting out their fantasies than the bachelors. Though Bellatrix only watched, she cackled maniacally as her jealousy burned brighter. She turned a blind eye to Lucius' pseudo-infidelity because she still felt great rage against the muggle-born girl who dared defy her master. Amidst all the licentious revelry, Severus bit back all the emotion and protests that welled up.

With a cold grin, the Dark Lord took his turn at last. Although no music played, he led her around in a beautiful dance reminiscent of a Hindu street performer charming a snake. The simulacrum followed him around like an obedient cow, twirling at his will as she fell into his arms with every move. Her smoky hands clung on while she invited every unseemly grope. Letting her spin out of his arms, he laughed as Bellatrix gave the simulacrum a hard punch across the jaw to send her flying in young Severus' direction.

Too drugged to keep his usual composure, Severus yelped at the ghostly creature falling on him. He shoved hard rather than catching the simulacrum, and she dropped to the ground in a heap. She lay still like a discarded doll, her eyes just as empty as before. This was just a shell, and yet that fact made the whole ordeal even harder to bear. It reminded him that she was still gone.

Raising his wand with a deep snicker, the Dark Lord made the simulacrum disappear. "I should have found you a plaything of your own." He must have been drunker than he thought; rarely did he make those kinds of offers. "Before the year is out, I will see to it that you have a little concubine." More uncharacteristic snickers came. "A courtesan you never need to pay and a petite odalisque for her too. Two women apiece for all of you."

While the others rejoiced loudly at the idea, Severus kept quiet. In his sobriety, he felt the mental haze cleared. The numbness had come from the powder. The Dark Lord was slowly drugging all of them, dulling their minds until they became just like the dead-eyed ghost of Lily Evans. He could almost see their marionette strings. Shuddering in the harsh wind, he knew the end was near. It was just a little harder because it had been brought about by friends.


	6. Chapter 5

_When I was arrested I was dressed in black…._

The pact was breaking. Once their leader had begun his descent into madness and decrepitude, the followers left and right turned on themselves and each other. The Ministry had started its own warpath through England, tracing the trail of carnage wrought. The knights of good were closing in on their prey like a bloodhound mere paces away from the injured fox.

They didn't know how many it would take, but they knew how many they had brought. The thirteen best aurors that the Ministry could offer surrounded the forbidding house, the place many claimed as the lair to the Dark Lord. He had become more erratic, organization among his minions quickly disintegrating. Rather than staying true to their nature as simple killers, the Death Eaters indulged in further depravities. The last one they arrested, a pathetic man named Valerius Avery, had been found next to his most recent victim trying to snort sugar; he was blathering about something called a 'Colombian rum-runner.' His bloodshot eyes were sunken into his withered face, and they only needed to placate him with a bottle of stout whiskey. The aurors killed him out of mercy; it was like putting down a dog. The man's son could pretend that his father had died more nobly.

It felt much later than mid-afternoon with the overcast sky threatening to dump rain on the aurors stationed vigilantly around the house. There was a recently created mound in the back where it looked like the house owner had buried something large. The dirt there was turned over often as if holes had been dug multiple times. Within the house, two aurors chosen by lot had been sent to tease out the Dark Lord. They were good as dead, but they knew that this was the only way to do it. Oberon Quince and Salerio Shylock had met only during brief moments in the Office, so neither felt more than professional trust in the other's abilities. They counted on mutual protection, but they didn't expect any extraordinary acts of heroism.

Together, they stalked up the dusty stairs after finding the first floor deserted. The only things out of place were some dark spots on the carpet and a bed stripped of its sheets in the master room. Both felt their anxiety spiral upward the longer it took them to find the Dark Lord. They kept entertaining the idea that this was a trap.

Still no sign of life until Oberon found the library door ajar. Wands at the ready, the pair walked inch by painful inch into the room. Nothing threatened them aside from cobwebs and more dust billowing up from the rug. Huddling behind the large wing-backed chair facing to the window, they motioned three counts before leaping out with wands stretched toward their enemy. Their eyes held the same wild passion of warriors ready to die.

A scraggly hair man with a thick, dirty beard had curled up on the floor wearing black and unkempt robes, either asleep or unconscious. With his good hand, he clutched the neck of an empty bottle. His other hand was so withered that it seemed to belong to a mummy. They were stains near his mouth on the floor, suggesting that he had vomited recently. The thing most striking was the smell of sweat, liquor, and rotting food. Even with the robes, his body seemed too angular as if he had only bones in his body rather than organs and muscle.

While their emotions ran high, their fighting passion had morphed into an animal's terror and confusion. Before, they had been thinking up ten different spells. Now, no a single coherent thought fluttered through their brains. It was like seeing magic for the first time when they were children. There was no explanation for what lay before their eyes, and they had no way of justifying the bizarre spectacle.

After staring in bewilderment at each other and the man on the floor, Oberon broke the silence. "We must have the wrong house," he said, voice laced with fear.

With a shaky and cautious sigh, Salerio shook his head. "Karkaroff and the others said this was where he came. Feleena as her owl animagus form gave us plenty of intelligence—"

"All she said was that she saw a man who looked similar to the Dark Lord," snapped Oberon, folding his arms tightly. He paced back and forth like a caged ocelot. "She said herself that her owl eyes are quite bad. She could only see him very well at night, and the light from the house hurt her eyes."

"This is him." Salerio felt a chill go down his spine as he spoke. "This is the man responsible for the reign of terror we fought against."

"No, we can't be so certain." Reaching into his robes, he withdrew a crumpled paper containing the Dark Lord's picture and a few other notes. Their fugitive looked clean-shaven and handsome, his cold face smiling sinisterly back. "Karkaroff said he had something none of them had. On his wrist—no, that one, the other one."

Praying that he would not suddenly rouse the curled-up man, Salerio gingerly picked up the man's good wrist to turn it over. In blue ink was tattooed a snake swallowing its tail. "The ouroboros, just as he said. There's no one else who would have this."

Oberon felt an asthma attack coming on, although he couldn't tell if it was from the stress or the dust. With his head in a tizzy, he just couldn't tell what was going on with his body now. Pulling a bag from his pocket, he breathed deeply in it until he felt the panic slowly die away.

Salerio continued checking over the man, further confirming his suspicions. "You know what we need to do." He wanted to finish this quick while they had the chance. "We can end this horror." Swallowing hard, he readied his wand again. "We could tell them he attacked us. Even if it weren't true, no one would know. And if they did, no one would blame us for killing him. We'd be praised for years to come."

Stuttering and stammering, Oberon's pacing grew more frantic. "This! This is the Dark Lord! Look at him!" He pointed accusingly at the man on the floor. "This is the man whose name is enough to make us piss ourselves in fear!" In a strange way, he was angry about how pathetic their great enemy looked.

"He still killed so many people. He made this happened." Salerio had lost more than a few friends to the battles. Tightening the grip on his wand, he took a deep and calming breath so he wouldn't do anything rash. "We can end everything now. We gave up far too much to let him get away. We've gotten this far."

The fugitive on the floor stirred and moaned, rolling onto all fours. He crouched down, coughing forcefully as something else came out of his mouth. Clearing his throat, he crawled to his feet while still clutching his bottle as he clung to the wing-backed chair. After a few grunts, he spoke in a hoarse, grumbling voice. "Damn it, Yaxley. I told you to not come here without telling me first. Did you even bring me any more whiskey?"

Salerio somehow found his voice in spite of his panic. "I—I left it downstairs. Sir."

"Stupid as always," he sneered, slurring. "Bring me water. I'll make it myself." Though the statement was to his self, he didn't bother changing the volume of his voice. "Wouldn't know common sense if it chewed off his arm. Never was good for a damn thing." When he scratched himself vigorously, tiny flies flew out of his robes. "Damn little midgies."

"Sir, we should take you out of here." Salerio reluctantly moved closer, offering his body as a support.

"Fine here," he said gruffly, falling against the auror anyways. "Don't need...hm. Water. Take me down to get some water. Not letting a damn third-rate wizard like you tell me what's what. Bugger."

The two aurors let their fugitive leaned on them as they walked down the steps, playing the part of his minions. The worst of it was the terrible smell, but it didn't help that they often got the feeling that little insects were crawling on them as well. He felt as bony and emaciated as he had looked; his withered arm seemed so delicate that even the slightest misused force might break it into a bunch of flaky pieces. It was like leading a corpse than an actual man.

Behind the house was a pump which served as their only source of water. After Oberon pumped some into a pail, the Dark Lord stared at it mutely as if uncertain what to do with it. After long moments, he mumbled, "Change it into something. I don't have my wand." The two aurors noticed his wand sticking conspicuously out of his pocket.

The men traded helpless glances, wondering if this was some kind of test. Was he trying to deceive them? After a calming sigh, Oberon put his focus on the pail of water. With a sharply uttered spell, he turned the clear water to light amber liquid. The pungent, aromatic vapors reached their noses quickly. Hopefully, that would be satisfying enough for his tastes. He offered a ladle-full to the Dark Lord.

Sniffing it gingerly, he took a sip and cringed. "I should've known that you'd make it taste like piss. Can't expect you to do a damn thing right, Yaxley." Despite the awful taste and his many complaints, he kept sipping. "Take me somewhere to get a decent drink."

_Had no friend for to go my bail…._

With a little magic, the Ministry had constructed special quarters for the Dark Lord's prison cell. He would be placed next to the attached infirmary because they still had to do an examination. Based on descriptions from the aurors who had surrounded the house, they fashioned a living area analogous to the room where he had been found. The Minister had decided that they needed to give the man comfortable quarters, partially because he was so powerful and partially because he was so sick. Their fugitive seemed vaguely aware of the fact that he wasn't in the hands of his followers, but he showed neither anger nor distrust to the people who now called themselves his caretakers. He was like an aged and wounded dog, too frail and too pained to put up much protest. Curled up in the padded armchair, he nursed his whiskey and stared into the middle distance with vacant brown eyes.

Through the polished wooden bars of the giant frame they had made to section off the quarters, Millicent Bagnold peered at their captive with a whitewashed face. Her riveted eyes watched every twitch he made. Behind her, Rufus Scrimgeour fidgeted and paced as he gnawed impatiently on his fingernails. "What are we waiting for, Minister?" he hissed in hushed tones. "We've got the man we want. We shouldn't even be so accommodating."

When she shook her head, she became reminded of how stiff and tense her muscles were. "I have never seen the Dark Arts do this to a wizard." She furrowed her brow, flabbergasted by how docile their enemy acted. "I—I can't understand it. Why would he let this happen?"

"It's all a ploy." The way that Rufus had been agonizing over the whole affair the moment that Oberon Quince and Salerio Shylock had presented the Dark Lord at his office came through clearly in his voice. He was tired of waiting around; as a man of action, he wanted to do something as soon as possible.

"But why…?" A realization suddenly came. "You said that you arrested a handful of Death Eaters. One of them—the name doesn't matter—one of them looked like this. He was a minor wizard, more of a brute than a magic user."

The head of the Aurors' Office growled. "What by Merlin's beard does that have to do with him?"

"The Death Eater mentioned something, a special kind of magical stuff that the Dark Lord gave him. He called it a Colombian run-runner." Her blue eyes made her look like a frightened cat. "I think the Dark Lord has found a kind of dark object far fouler than we have ever known."

Rufus was shuddering by now as he paced. The Dark Lord was the man he had focused all of his energy on defeating. With him gone, they would be safe at last. The idea that there was something strong enough to cripple the Dark Lord like this utterly terrified him. "So what is our next move?"

When Millicent looked back, she caught the blood-chilling and pitiful glance of the Dark Lord. The expression on his face let her know that he knew they were talking about him. She watched him turn to the wall as he had been before, pressing a little further into the chair. Millicent swallowed hard. "We do with him what we do with all misusers of magic. Tell the Wizengamot to prepare for a trial."


	7. Chapter 6

_Early next morning about a half past nine_

Young Benjamin Hobbes Jr had never been this nervous or upset or frightened in his entire life. Nothing could ever compared; not the many times that he and his best friend narrowly escaped their fathers' wrath, not the time he broke his leg from a hard fall as a small boy, and not even the time his sister spent a month in the hospital could have rattled his cage the way this did. Because of all the arrests lately, they had been pulling all sorts of people all over the Ministry to aid with court procedures. Families of defendants left and right demanded advocates for the people on trial out of fear. It was such a strain on the whole system thanks to the American-like impulsiveness that Scrimgeour sent out his staff that they almost threw out the rulebook. So long as they could everyone through the system and out, the Ministry would stay afloat.

He still didn't understand why they had chosen him for this particular defendant, and no one would volunteer information. It wasn't often that someone told him that he should do a good job, but he shouldn't do it too well. He didn't understand why they had chosen someone from the Department for Regulation as advocate; was the idea to give this defendant someone inexperienced who would do a crummy job? Benjamin always liked being on good terms with people, but he also liked not being put in aggravating situations. Did they do this because they thought that his warm and friendly nature would make him easier to mold so that he'd do exactly what they asked of him when advocating for his defendant? Worse yet, what if he was the kind of person who'd just roll over for his superiors? Had he been doing that all along to keep from stepping on people's toes? Was being nice just another way to be a push-over in times like these? And since when did he start questioning the way that his parents had raised him?

The way in which the Death Eaters had broken apart was surreal; the fact that they were breaking up at all seemed weird in and of itself, but the way they scattered was beyond what anyone had expected. There was talk of one man who had turned coats, but everyone had a different answer concerning his name. Now, the case everyone had been waiting for was only a few painful minutes away. Despite the resolute will of Minister Bagnold, the immense protests had overwhelmed her into allowing an open court for the case. Families of victims had threatened to riot inside and outside the building if they refused an open trial, something that wizards and witches were never prepared for. Now the trial would become what Rufus Scrimgeour had hoped to avoid: a spectacle.

A gallery had been installed in the courtroom just for this case. Many were dressed in their absolute best, Benjamin included because it seemed appropriate; he just felt stupid trying to wear anything else. Although there were so many people, there wasn't a stentorian roar of talking normally found in closed places with crowds. With aurors everywhere, people chose to be on their best behavior. Rumors had also gone around that they were twice as many aurors as anyone could see because half of them were disguised as animals. They blended in well with the owls and various familiar pets that people had brought along.

Benjamin bent an ear to their conversations in hopes of concentrating on something other than his own inadequacies, but it didn't help as much as he had wanted. One of the Death Eaters arrested, Bellatrix Lestrange, had supposedly miscarried in her efforts to escape. They had rushed her to a doctor and had to knock her out just so she'd cooperate. They was no telling if that were true because her husband insisted that he had neither touched nor even associated with her. However, that might've been just to deter aurors from arresting him too. Everyone brought in had plenty of secrets.

His friend Aloysius Hyde had escaped from the gallery after passing off a bribe to an auror. The long-legged young wizard strode like a wiry horse toward his ursine friend. "How're ya feeling?" he asked, giving him a hearty pat. Aloysius had always been a tall person, but Benjamin was even taller. His strong and bulky figure made the other look like a rail.

"How do you think?" Benjamin's voice was dismal. "Why do you think they chose me instead of someone like you?" They worked in the same department.

"Truth?" He frowned, pulling his friend into a quick hug. "I'm too much of a sophist. I make the weaker argument stronger. They want you because you're honest."

"Being honest just means that I'll try my hardest."

"Yeah, but…." Aloysius lowered his voice. "You…you know where this man belongs." Under the doctrines of the Dark Lord, both men and their whole families would have quickly perished.

The door to the chamber slowly opened, announcing to everyone that the trial would start. Aloysius scrambled back into the gallery which had immediately hushed. All eyes turned to the trio that entered.

"_Go on, you dirty hack, into that district court…._"

The eyes of the prisoner leered at the gawkers as he stalked in with two handlers. Hands chained in front, he proceeded down the walkway with his proud head high and defiant. Fame had woven its way through the crowd to spread little rumors about the state he had been in when they first found him. Everyone had expected the shaggy man-beast, and instead saw a well-groomed wizard with a very thin face. Color still hadn't completely returned to his face, but he looked as though he'd been eating more than just scotch. They had delayed the trial for two weeks just to clean him up so he wouldn't have bloody gums and skin lesions. However, the ravaging his body had sustained meant that he could never regain the bloom of his physical charm. All the gloss of beauty was present, but the substance of his beauty had died forever. He wore long gloves to hide his bony wrists.

Even though the prisoner was only of average height, he seemed taller than everyone else in the room. Benjamin shrank away as the fugitive sat down gingerly at his seat. He canted his head inquisitively toward the advocate like a python evaluating its potential prey.

After mustering all his courage, Benjamin leaned over to whisper, "Is there anything I can do for you, sir?" He spoke with respect out of compulsion and fear.

"It's no surprise they gave me the likes of a mud-blood," he answered coolly. "If you could please, pretend that you're not as stupid as you look."

All members of the Wizengamot rose, displaying the "w" on their plum robes when they stood. Bartemius Crouch wore a frigid expression as he watched the fugitive; many knew how long he had been waiting for this moment. "Thomas Marvolo Riddle—"

"I am Lord Voldemort." The light of anger came to the prisoner's eyes. "That man does not exist. I am not him, and I never was."

Warlock Crouch bristled at the interruption. "You are hereby charged as a criminal before this court and your peers for your many transgressions, more numerous than any wizard in history, against magical peoples of all heritages. Let it be known that this trial shall only concern itself with the crimes which are most difficult to discern and with the purpose of discovery. For the time of this trial, the prisoner shall be known as Thomas Riddle—"

"I am Lord Voldemort," he snapped, his face twisting into a sneer.

"This court does not recognize titles." Warlock Crouch leered in reply, daring the prisoner to attack him.

Minister Bagnold, however, could see where things would lead without intervention. Standing next to Warlock Crouch, she touched his shoulder gently. "With the consent of the court, let the prisoner be known in this trial as Mr. Voldemort."

Neither party seemed pleased with the suggestion, perhaps more interested in just fighting to test their enemy's will. However, neither voiced outright objection to the idea either. The prisoner showed a semblance of respect for the Minister, possibly because she had provided him with all the necessary care to keep him comfortable and alive.

"If I may." Benjamin, known to the court as Advocate Hobbes, hoped that he didn't sound like a child when he spoke up. He resisted the urge to raise his hand in an attempt to be acknowledged, and he would have looked particularly bad doing that since he was already on his feet. "Because this trial is based on discovery." Now he wished that he hadn't spoken up at all because he felt the hot gaze of everyone on him; the worst came from the man he was defending. "I am curious as to my role."

Warlock Crouch grimaced incredulously, the bushy moustache on his lip wiggling with his expression. "Is this a serious inquiry?"

Advocate Hobbes sat down as if the question had pushed him into his seat. "No, your honor. Not at all." He dared not glance at his defendant.

"For today, the court will concern itself with inquiries regarding the murders of James Potter and Lily Evans, and the dark item known as the Colombian Rum-Runner." Although the Wizengamot had limited their scope, Warlock Crouch sounded more interested asking the defendant about other matters.

Emotions ranging from shame to fury swirled around in the defendant's expression. Looking over his shoulder, he scowled at the audience in the gallery.

"Mr. Voldemort." Minister Bagnold gestured to the chair in the middle of the courtroom. "Would you please take your seat so we may begin?"


	8. Chapter 7

_Into the courtroom my trial began…_

The prisoner gnashed his teeth and chewed his tongue for a few minutes, resisting the urge to talk before finally beginning his testimony:

"I should have known that someone would put so much Veritaserum into my whiskey. This can't be less than a half a bottle—" His head jerked like a stallion champing at his bit.

"The Colombian Rum Runner. That is a long story. A very long one. No, I will n—it is not an item. It is no item. Not a potion either, but it should be added to every potion. That's not the thing to concern yourself with; it's a process. The thing you want is cocaine." The prisoner hissed just after, still trying to gain control of his mouth.

"Shut up, Crouch. I shall fight you and this too I shall fight—ngh, a man from South America gave me the cocaine." He writhed in the chair, losing against the potion. "We met in Knockturn Alley when one of my envoys had told me this man was looking for me. He had something of great value to offer. Do not bother looking for him because the moment I found out what he had, we dispose of his body in the nearest lake. He—he—he—he—it was twenty-four kilograms of the stuff, so he told me. I think it much less, perhaps; I reckon more like twelve. I knew very little about him, and I intended to keep it that way. He was a mudblood, and a South American at that. No great loss to this great nation or the world." The prisoner gasped, growling because more words came like vomit. "I only wish that hadn't killed him now because I cannot find any of that beautiful white powder now. I used all of it in two months. My followers were too weak for the stuff—only Bellatrix was strong enough."

"Lily Evans. Lily Evans was my little toy, and she was charming one at that. My followers captured her shortly after she left the safety of Hogwarts, another testimony to their stupidity. They had mistaken her for someone else I was looking for, but Severus all but cried like a feeble child for no one for hurt her. I considered killing her, but she was a pretty creature." His resistance seemed to fade a little when he spoke of her, mostly because he had given up on resisting. They had administered far too much potion for him to win. "She was such a young thing; the bloom of her youth had just opened completely." The prisoner indulged himself in a sinister and licentious smile, one that showed how revolting he was in his middle age. Anyone who had known Lily Evans would be too familiar with how much they contrasted.

"She was too sweet and pure for anyone else, and certainly not Severus. If I gave her to him, he would be more interested in leaving. She did not love him—" He laughed darkly. "But what is love? It does not matter. I gave her my own concoction of Love Potion. Amortentia would have been far too dangerous; she required something very delicate to complement her own delicacy. I suppose that when one owns toys for a long time, they gain sentimental value of some sort. She lived as my domestic pet, and I think that in brewing the potion some of it would spill on my hands and reach my lips. That can be the only explanation for how I was too good to her."

When some members of the Wizengamot visibly stiffened, he put away all resistance against the truth serum. Now did he not simply need to tell all; he wanted tot tell all. If they wanted to know all the details, he would make it as unpleasant for them as he possibly could. "Virgins are, by far, the most desirable companions. I still remember the first night I lay with her. She called me Thomas and I hated it immensely, but for some reason I allowed it; I now forget why." He folded his hands underneath his chin, his slimy smirk with a hint of reminiscence. "She was so obedient; I could see the apprehension in her green eyes because she trusted me yet she was like a little fawn separated from its mother. Often she loved me, but she still saw me as a tiger. She bled a little that night, but no more than expected. I gave Severus the sheets so he would know that Lily was now mine. I hadn't met a woman so pure in years; she was a perfect wife, like a Blessed Mary."

Lost in his thoughts, he paused before his smile became a scowl. "Something went wrong. Someone didn't watch her the way they should have. I had my followers watch over her when I had important things to do; I am not surprised that I acquired such idiots as servants. Yaxley is one of the worst, as are all of the Malfoys and the Blacks; I meet so many stupid people that they hardly stand out anymore, but those are the ones who should be executed simply because they contributed nothing to the wizarding world. Somehow, Lily could resist the effects. I must admit that I kept her for myself because she was fairly intelligent. I didn't expect her to be such a shrew." He growled audibly at the thought of her, staring off as if she were still standing there.

"For how long she betrayed me, only she would know. But she gave herself to other men when she should have been mine." Blood rushed to his angry features, turning his face red. "I gave her everything. I was the only reason why she was still alive. Whatever she wanted, I gave it to her just as one would with their best heifer or their prized horse. When she was pregnant, I protected her and gave her soft things just like she wanted. I did far, far more for her than I ever should have!" Again, he hissed and spat, probably saying something in Parseltongue.

"That night. It was a year after her—mine—that little bastard. Whosever seed she carried in her womb. The little brat was a year old." It had been only a few months ago, but it felt like eons for the prisoner. "Severus had told me about the stag who kept visiting our house, saying it was some second-rate wizard named James Potter who had bad eyes and a death wish. I didn't believe him because Severus is often too eager to tell me things. He always intends to keep me well-informed about Lily, but he would all too often say things that waste my time. I had met with the South American only a little while ago. Were you ever a cuckold, Crouch? I think you were because you look like one. That was what she did. Strip me of my pride after everything I gave her and her little whelp? I could have destroyed them both, but I chose not to. I even regarded the child as mine, something for me to protect for my sake. That is the thanks she gives me!" A little bit of foam formed at the edges of his mouth.

"James Potter was in my bed with her, and he was knee-deep inside her when I should have been! At least my manhood is comparable to my own wand, but not him. What did he have to show? Nothing. Nothing at all." The prisoner began snorting and spitting as much as a furious bull. The deliberation of his cadence sounded more like poetic meter now. "I drove his wand clear through him, and I drank the blood of my enemy as it spilled upon my face. And I killed Lily Evans for her hubris, and I've never regretted it!" In his anger, he leapt from his chair with his teeth bared, body twitching and shaking. He tried to gesture but all efforts were in vain because of his manacles. "My only regret is that her death was too quick! I should've spent hours on her!"

It explained to others why after leaving the Hogwarts school, she seemed to fall off the face of the earth. No one knew what had happened and many thought her dead; this fate for four years was even worse that they had imagined. Two handlers rushed to the prisoner, pushing him back into his seat. Something about the action allowed him to gain some composure so he could keep answering questions. "And the child? Severus should have disposed of it. I tried to do it myself, but there is something inhuman about the thing. I tried to cast the Cruciatus curse after killing Lily, and somehow it cast the curse against me first I think." He narrowed his eyes, leering at each member of the Wizengamot. "And when I leave here, I will find that child and kill him myself just as I had meant to. That little bastard doesn't deserve the air it breaths. I want the line of Lily Evans rubbed out forever for what she did to me."

The members of the Wizengamot stared at whatever this man had become, even more horrified than before when he first came to the Ministry's headquarters. Not even Warlock Crouch could speak up. "Thank you for your testimony, Mr. Voldemort," said Minister Bagnold at last in an effort to break the silence.

The prisoner wandered back to his seat next to his advocate with the help of a few handlers, still twitching a little but seeming tired for such an intense outburst. He felt more of his body decaying; he knew what he wanted to do, but now the prisoner was truly uncertain about whether or not he could do it.


	9. Chapter 8

_In about five minutes in walks a man…._

Someone was screaming down the hall, probably another Death Eater being hauled into court. He imagined that it was the same sound his uncle made when the Ministry finally took him away for good. Not only had he done himself a huge service by killing the Riddles, he had done the rest of the world a favor by eliminating the last of that line. Uncle Morfin had been the worst kind of pureblood: a savage beast below werewolves and muggles. Taking the name Voldemort had been a way for him to expunge both sides of his family, and he still couldn't decide exactly which one he abhorred more; was it a mother born of sick blood or a father born of bronze? None of that mattered now. When he escaped here, he could found a new bloodline which would truly bring glory back to Salazar Slytherin. And what was more, Bellatrix would help him accomplish this; her husband was too weak-willed to stop him.

That is, if he escaped at all. While there were few wizards he feared, he had seen Albus Dumbledore in the gallery during his trial. The old man dared to meet his gaze; while there had always been softness to his expression, the disapproval in his eyes was authoritarian. The prisoner was also developing a healthy respect for Minister Bagnold, although it was the kind of respect a dishonest suppliant gave a patron. He was waiting for his chance to leave, but he considered sparing her in his carnage of the Ministry when he was free as a way to repay the favor. He didn't believe much in kindness, but he could appreciate someone who bargained well. She treated him like someone with rights and privileges rather than a prisoner because he could see the fear that danced wildly in her eyes every time she looked at him. That power over her gave him comfort although he unfortunately couldn't exercise it properly.

In his cell-quarters, the nurse who visited at schedule points during the day, Anise Dehctar, was more like a maid because she tidied up the area before tending to him. She always took unnecessary amounts of time with her cleaning as a way to put off the duties toward him, even scrubbing the loo and doing everything by hand rather than using magic. The plain-looking woman in white was now washing her hands since she was done with her cleaning and could now give him a check-up. Opening up her black medical bag on a coffee table, Nurse Dehctar pulled out her usual implement of potions, instruments, and bandages. "Time for your look-over." She refused to call him anything aside from 'you.' When she wasn't feeling pernicious, she sometimes called him 'mister.'

Normally, he was expected to take the stool in the middle of the room and sit up straight whenever she said this. He stayed defiantly in his padded chair.

Nurse Dehctar glanced over. "I said it's time for your look-over."

The Dark Lord coldly turned his face away.

"Fine." Raising five children with a mostly absent husband had hardened her authority. She began packing up her kit. "I'll tell Mr. Scrimgouer and the minister that you're not behaving today."

When it became obvious that she had every intention of carrying out her threat—she never bluffed—the Dark Lord rose and took the stool with a glower.

Nurse Dehctar didn't smile when he finally complied. "That was what I thought." She approached with a small wooden stick. "You know what will happen if you bite me, don't you?"

He nodded with inaudible hiss, opening his mouth for her. His gums were still bright pink and swollen but not as spongy as before; because of so many of his teeth had been rotting to the root, a dental surgeon replaced all of them with magical replicas made of porcelain that could sink into the gums as if they were his own. Many of the procedures had been painful despite the availability of less agonizing means; it seemed so typical of the Ministry to put him through as much as they could.

She tugged at his mouth and lips but showed respect when touching the most tender portions. One reason why the Dark Lord tolerated her is that she did not seek to harm him during examinations. "You're not eating like you should. Maybe I should just let you go to waste."

The Dark Lord sneered, purposely breathing hard so she'd be forced to inhale a puff of his putrid breath while she checked his mouth. The moment he was free, he spat, "You wouldn't. Your job is to keep me alive." Despite his terrible conditions, he clung fervently and tenaciously to the wretched thing he called his life.

"Just take off your clothes so I can see the rest." Folding her swarthy arms, she looked away to give him the only privacy he could expect. Never in her time as his caretaker would she move so that she couldn't see him. She was taking care of a wild animal.

No part of the examination he despised more than when he had to disrobe. As usual, he waited until she pestered him just in case she decided against it. With a glower, he gingerly pulled the drab brown robes off his shoulders and unbuttoned his shirt. After some more badgering words, he removed his trousers, socks, and undershirt.

He wore as much clothing as they gave me because he always felt cold. Arms folded across his hairless chest, he twitched to keep from shivering. Every rib was still visible, and his hips looked angular. The white underpants, stained of course, had trouble holding onto him since they had been tailored for a man two sizes larger. His collarbone stood out against the rest of him; Ministry officials had wisely withheld a mirror from the room. The sickness of his arm had spread further. One side of him looked thin but healthier than before; it looked like he possessed muscles and tendons and all the other things a body should have. Like anyone his age, he had developed his share of age spots which had darkened from practicing the Dark Arts, and his destructive lifestyle made jaundice unavoidable. Lesions had developed on his skin after his terrible neglect, although treatment gave plausible hope. Yet, he had full movements of his limbs and no outward signs of severe disfigurement as if he had been born to practice such unholy magic.

It was the other part of him that he often wished to keep covered. From his armpit to the bottom tip of his ribcage and from his shoulder to the middle of his collarbone, he looked cadaverous. Sharp purple spider veins stood out against what was left of his grayish flesh. Only his bones seemed intact while a poison had dissolved much of his muscle; it was near miraculous that he still had the tendons keeping his joints together. His fingernails were yellowed and brittle, and perhaps the dark stuff underneath them was yet another fungus that had found a home. The sores here needed the most attention for they still had dead flesh and infections. They oozed more things than anyone would think was in their body. The deepest of the sores—one exposing muscle and bone—had been patched up using a healing potion. But rather eliminating the sores completely, the potion could only hide the internal things exposed. The abscesses still leaked milky fluids in many shades of red, green, and yellow. Because he was so thin, one could see the unnatural bulges of his organs. Nurse Dehctar had told him she suspected this also came from fluid collecting in his abdomen; it was the first signs of his liver, and perhaps other organs, failing completely. One could almost see his sternum rise and fall with each beat of his heart.

_The verdict said, "In the first degree…."_

"I hope that nurse takes better care of you than you've been doing." The composed, aloof voice was one Voldemort had never forgotten no matter how much he wished it. To hear that matter-of-fact tenor instantly heated his body with rage. The only wizard to ever inspire fear in him stood just beyond the wooden bars of the separator that created his cell. Over the half-moon spectacles gazed blue eyes burning with cold fire. He wore scarlet robes that matched his wide-brimmed and tall, pointed hat.

The varnished wooden frame separated them. Other than that, he was on display in this living room for everyone else to see. But it was enough to make him feel safe to do what he wanted. Barking unintelligibly, he tore away from the nurse's grip to rush the frame. He threw himself against it on his good side, otherwise too weak to do much else.

Dumbledore never flinched, keeping his eyes fixed on the prisoner. "I'm not easily scared as your followers, Thomas."

"I could still kill you now!" With his good arm, he reached through the bars to grab at some available part.

For a man close to one hundred, he was still quicker than the invalid prisoner. He snatched up Voldemort by his wrist, bony fingers like a tourniquet. When the Dark Lord yelped, he pushed the hand back.

The prisoner rubbed his wrist as best he could, melodramatic about his pain as always. "Why did you come here? Minister Bagnold said for no one to visit. I need my rest." He sneered to let the old wizard know that he inconvenienced him with his presence.

"Minister Bagnold makes an exception for me." Pulling off his spectacles, he cleaned them with part of his robes. "You were always such a good student at Hogwarts." He spoke with his usual disappointment, subtly signaling for the nurse to keep her distance until they were done speaking.

"Sod off, Dumbledore." He still didn't have the courage to use his first name; not even the Dark Lord was so brazen. "There's nothing more to say. I'll leave here; by hook or crook I'll leave this forsaken shithole."

"You always could talk highly of yourself." Now able to see the extent of the damage, his eyes conspicuously inspected his former student's body. "It's no use, Thomas. You're dying, and the only thing Miss Anise can do is make your death less painful. Look at your right hand."

"I know what it looks like." He refused to look at himself or to meet Dumbledore's eyes.

"Your magic is unraveling after that blow to Lily's child. It doesn't happen often, but dark wizards are always the victims. And if I had to guess, it was because you tried to hurt her. She sacrificed herself to protect her son, something I doubt that you could ever understand for yourself." Glasses replaced, he took a step closer. "Everything you built is disintegrating, Thomas, just like your body. And still, you hold fast to your hatred."

"I still have my followers, and I still have enough magic to do what I need." Provided that he could also acquire some of that delectable white powder from which he had derived so much strength, he would have enough magic.

"You destroyed everything, Thomas, even yourself." For a moment, he wavered before asking his question. "Was it worthwhile?" Though his tone was patronizing, it also hinted at morbid curiosity. "Was the slaughter, the torment—was it worth your while to make certain wizards became masters of the world once more?"

"Every moment of it," he spat without hesitation. This time, he dared to look at the old wizard. "There is nothing to regret."

"Not even what happened with Lily?"

He snarled at the question. "It was a small mistake, but I should have been more careful. I still do not regret keeping her." Feverishly, he scrambled to his feet. "And I don't regret coming here either. I don't regret the deaths of my family, or the muggles I would still happily murder, or trying to achieve what is rightfully ours."

"And yet you're here."

The prisoner had to take a few breaths because, once again, the sheer force of his anger had worn him out. "You know well as I that wizards are the natural rulers of the world. You know it, and you want it just as much as I."

His eyes hardened. "I want a good life."

"You know that they are less deserving of the world! Look at what they've done to it!" Voldemort's voice cracked from the passion. "The smell, Dumbledore! Everything used to smell green and good and pure. The sea used to be as blue as the sky. They'll just consume everything in their path like rabid wolves, Dumbledore! They're animals!"

As much as he wouldn't acknowledge it outwardly, the Dark Lord was right about everything. In his life, he had seen healthy rivers grow black and die. He had watched muggles try to destroy each other so they could lay claim to some useless speck of land.

The silence encouraged him. "You should have joined me, Dumbledore. To you I would have submitted myself."

"I am not your Dr. Faust," he replied coolly, noticing how the prisoner's ribs moved. "Another minute of this and your heart might expire."

The Dark Lord gripped the bars as best he could. "What about that friend of yours, huh? Eh?" His tone with the defiant tone of a hustler pushing to get whatever it was he wanted. "Gristlewand, was it? I remember what they had said about him in the papers, and I remember that you had to leave school for a bit on his account. What was his name?"

"Grindelwald." He wasn't pleased to say the name. "What about him, Thomas?"

In his audacity, he dared flash a snide grin. "People have always talked. They still talk around here when they pass my cell and wherever they go. It's so funny how people think that I can't hear them or read their lips. People have always talked. They said that you were his best friend. Closer than brothers, were you?"

Much of Dumbledore's voluminous beard and moustache hid his expression, but still his eyes flared up. His eyebrows wiggled just enough to show the restraint he used to keep his face as neutral as possible. "He was dear to me."

The prisoner snickered. "How dear was he? The only thing closer than a brother is a lover, so they say. Was that what you two did?" Even if he was tired, he always had the energy to mock someone else. "You would have played the woman, I think. Let him ream you up—"

"The more breath you spend on that, the less you have to keep yourself alive, Thomas." He kept his offense closely under wraps.

"I will live forever. Forever, you hear me? Until the moon falls and the stars burn out and world turns into a cold ball. And from that, I will rebuild everything." Even as he started wheezing from his anger, he refused to stop. "You hear me? I am a god among men!"

"Even gods meet their deaths, Thomas." He turned away from the bars, deciding he had gotten enough of the conversation.

"Christ rose again, and I will too!" The prisoner gripped the bars, vainly reaching out to snatch up a part of the old wizard's clothing. "Your time is ending soon, Dumbledore! But not mine! I'll always be here! Mark my words!"

He gave the Dark Lord a deaf ear. However, his singing was just within earshot, and there was deliberate irony as he sang softly, "On a Monday, I was arrested…."


End file.
